


The Safir Sadness Marathon, Vol. 1

by PoboboProbably



Series: The Safir Sadness Marathon [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Origins, Dragon Age: Origins - Awakening
Genre: Angst, Character Death, Depression, Even Heavier Angst, F/M, Fifth Blight, Fluff, Gen, Heavy Angst, POV Alistair, Poor Life Choices, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Hatred, Seriously Guys There's a LOT of Angst, The Blight (Dragon Age)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-17
Updated: 2018-08-19
Packaged: 2019-06-28 22:28:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 9
Words: 8,599
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15716355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PoboboProbably/pseuds/PoboboProbably
Summary: Safir Tabris has a hard life. Now, through a series of variable-length vignettes, you can suffer through it alongside her as she's slowly beaten down into a depressed, self-hating pulp. The first of three volumes designed to tell the story of the angst-fest that is Safir's life, this series covers the events of Dragon Age: Origins and shows you how it all began.Don't worry, she gets better. Eventually. Probably. We can hope.Also, a special thanks goes to /u/Zinjadu, who acted as my official Safir consultant throughout the process of ruining this poor girl's life. Enjoy.





	1. When Your Best Friend is a Literal Dog

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We start things off light with a bit of silliness at camp. Our intrepid party is still on its way to Lothering, and the relationships between the heroes have yet to take form. Our wary elven protagonist is currently joined only by her faithful mabari.
> 
> Rest assured, it only gets worse from here.

Safir unfurled her dingy bedroll and let it fall flat onto the ground. With Ostagar behind her and no other settlements for at least another couple of days, she would have to make due sleeping under the stars until she could buy herself a decent tent. Next to her, the massive mabari paced around, looking suspiciously at the patch of dirt she’d chosen. 

Morrigan and Alistair’s bedrolls were far away, both from her own and from each other, making the campsite a more or less even-sided triangle. She wasn’t quite sure why the dog had chosen to follow her to bed instead of one of the humans it was doubtless more accustomed to, but she didn’t begrudge the company. With the bedroll now firmly in place, Safir sat down with her arms on her knees and turned her focus to the beast.

“Well? What do you think?” she asked, not sure what to expect as a response.

The mabari looked into her eyes briefly and then resumed sniffing aimlessly at the ground around them, every now and then huffing as though he smelled something foul. 

“Yeah, that’s what I thought. We’ll get tents soon.”

Apparently satisfied, the dog rolled onto his side and looked again at Safir, his head cocked at an odd angle.

“So, I figure I should probably give you a name, right? Did you have one before?”

The mabari sneezed.

“Right. Sneeze. Is that what you were called?” 

She felt his low growl as easily as she heard it.

“I guess not, then. Hmm. What about ‘emergency rations’? You like that?”

The mabari stood up and whined a bit, stepping back a few paces without taking his eyes off of her.

“Oh, relax, you baby. I didn’t mean it.”

Barking happily, he leapt forward and tried licking Safir’s face, despite her attempts to swat his snout away from hers.

“Stop!” she cried, laughing at the dog’s persistence. “Stop that, or maybe I _will_ mean it!”

He growled some, then gave her cheek one last, defiant lick before settling down with his head in her lap. Safir sighed and began petting him behind the ears, thinking of names out loud.

“Henry? Joseph? Oh, I could name you Soris, after my cousin! You smell almost as bad as he does.”

The dog complained with a surprisingly expressive whine, clearly upset at having been insulted.

“Hey, I’m just stating facts,” she consoled, poking and prodding at the huge muscles on his back. “It’s not like I smell great, either. None of us do. Two days out from Ostagar and not a single pond in sight. Can you believe it?”

Letting out a sigh, the mabari shifted his weight some, and Safir heard his stomach rumble. For the first time since leaving Morrigan’s hut, she gave some real thought to how famished she was.

“Yeah… me too. What I wouldn’t give for a nug steak right now. Or maybe a roast pork,” she said, noticing the mabari’s ears perk up as she finished. “So, you like pork, huh?”

He barked happily, wagging his stub of a tail and letting his tongue hang over the side of his jaw.

“Alright, then, pork it is. Soon as we get to Lothering, I’ll find you the biggest, greasiest cut of pork I can. How’s that sound?”

The mabari panted now, his leg slightly twitching in excitement and saliva beginning to drip from his mouth.

“Oh, don’t slobber on me!” Safir yelped, trying and failing to push the massive dog’s weight off of her. After resigning herself to the fact that her legs were bathing in a disturbing amount of canine drool, she sighed again in silent thought. “You know, that’s not such a bad name, is it?”

Looking up at her with as confused an expression as he could manage, he yelped softly as if to ask for clarification.

“Pork. I think that’s what I’ll call you,” she explained. “Like it?”

He seemed to consider it some, then barked affirmatively and continued drooling onto her pants.

“Glad to hear it, Pork. It was either that or emergency rations.”

Growling almost resentfully, Pork shifted the bulk of his weight onto her legs in retaliation for the insult.

“Ow, get off me!” she cried, wincing under his enormous flank. “Take a joke, you stupid dog!”

Pork ignored her plea, pretending to sleep.

“Very funny, Pork,” she sighed, arms crossed impatiently. “Keep this up and I’m putting you on a vegetarian diet.”

Rising almost instantly, Pork licked her face once more and bounded off happily to go bother someone else. Safir laughed to herself and lay down to try to get some actual rest for the first time in what felt like weeks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to Zinja's husband for apparently having come up with 'emergency rations' as a name for a dog. Couldn't have done it without you, buddy.


	2. Goosebumps Walkaway

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our hero falls victim to a large influx of smooth talk from everyone's favorite bastard prince. Desperate to maintain her anti-human sympathies, Safir starts earning herself a gold medal in mental gymnastics as she slips into fervent denial.
> 
> Thank you to FOX's New Girl for the chapter title.

Redcliffe Castle loomed in the distance, framed by the sheer cliff sides that gave it its name and illuminated by a break in the clouds. It looked stately, more impressive than anything she’d ever seen in Denerim. Fort Drakon was larger and taller, but its surroundings did it no justice. The castle that stood before them now was solitary, perched upon an outcrop overlooking the enormous lake.

Seats of power had never done much for her. Back home they were only the symbols of human lords under whose boots the elves all lived. But something about Redcliffe seemed different. Welcoming somehow, as if going there would bring only peace. 

“Look, can we talk for a moment?” a voice asked in front of her, stunning her out of her transfixion. Alistair’s voice. “I need to tell you something I, ah, should probably have told you earlier.”

“I’m not going to like this, am I?” Safir responded, noting the uncertainty in his eyes. They were glazed over like those of a child awaiting punishment.

“I don’t know. I doubt it. I’ve never liked it, that’s for sure. I told you before how Arl Eamon raised me, right? That my mother was a serving girl at the castle and he took me in?” The man’s hesitation was nauseating.

“You said something about dogs, actually.”

“Right, I know, this was after the dogs. Try to keep up,” he joked in response, apparently put at ease by Safir’s good humor. “Anyway, the reason he took me in was because… well, because my father was King Maric. Which made Cailan my half-brother, I suppose.”

_King Maric_? That was a large piece of news to have hidden so carefully. Not the type of news suitable for knife-ears, evidently.

“So… you’re not just a bastard, but a royal bastard?”

“Ha! Yes, I guess I am at that. I should use that line more often,” he said, having taken her jab as a joke. Then, sighing his guilt, he continued. “Look, I would have told you, but it never really meant anything to me. I was inconvenient, a possible threat to Cailan’s rule, and so they kept me secret. I’ve never talked about it to anyone.” 

So the secrecy held another motive, then.

“Curious. Your brother was King Cailan and you never talked about it? Even once?”

“No, I didn’t. It never did me any good, being his brother. Everyone who knew either resented me for it or they coddled me. Even Duncan kept me out of the fighting because of it. I didn’t want you to know for as long as possible. I’m sorry.”

“Didn’t you trust me?” she asked him, feeling some vague sting of shame in her chest. Finding it strange that she cared at all about having Alistair’s trust, she ignored the sting and let him explain.

“No, of course!” he gasped, eager to correct her. “It’s not that. Please, don’t think it’s that. I just didn’t want you treating me any differently.”

“Right. Better not to risk shallowing the depths of my infinite respect for you.”

“ _Ha-ha_ , Safir. You know what I meant.”

“Does Loghain know?” she wondered aloud, wary of the possibility that the information could be used against them. Or, better yet, that they could use it against _him_.

“I’d guess so. Why wouldn’t he? He was King Maric’s best friend. I don’t know if that means anything, though… I certainly never considered the idea that it might ever be important. At any rate, that’s it. That’s what I had to tell you. I thought you should know about it.”

“Are you sure? You’re not hiding anything else?”

“Besides my unholy love of fine cheeses and a minor obsession with my hair, no. That’s it. Just the prince thing.” His choice of words was telling. Obsessed with his station, just like every other human. She should have known.

“So I should be calling you _Prince_ Alistair, then?” she asked, almost groaning the words.

“No! Maker’s breath, just hearing that gives me a heart attack! It’s not true, anyhow… I’m the son of a commoner. It was always made clear that the throne is not in my future, and that’s fine by me.” His disgust at the idea of ruling seemed genuine enough. Maybe she’d been too quick to judge. Or maybe, as was more likely, he was just a good liar. “No, if there’s an heir to be found, it’s Arl Eamon himself. He’s not of royal blood, but he _is_ Cailan’s uncle, and more importantly, very popular with the people. Though, if he’s really as sick as we’ve heard… No, I don’t want to think about that. I really don’t.”

“However sick he is, we’ve got to do something about it.”

“Right, I know. I wasn’t trying to get out of it, I was just… Well, anyway, there you have it. Now can we move on? And I’ll just pretend you still think I’m some nobody who was too lucky to die with the rest of the Grey Wardens.”

“And what does that make me?”

“The reason why I say I was lucky.”

Turning around instantly, Alistair started back down the sloping road to the castle, completely unaware of Safir’s dumbfounded expression. Just what was _that_ supposed to mean? 

Hardly able to think over the inexplicable rush in her chest, she began considering the likeliest interpretations of what he’d just said. Lucky to be alive in a general sense seemed like the safest bet. But then, that wouldn’t have anything to do with her personally, and from the way he said it… Maybe he felt lucky to have another Warden to fall back on? Especially one he’d ceded leadership to so quickly.

There was another way to take it, of course. One far more fanciful and much too outlandish to be a real possibility. If one of the alienage men had said something as stupid, there wouldn’t be much confusion at all. But coming from _him_ , from a human...

“Warden, why do you delay?” Sten asked, cutting her thoughts short. “Is there a problem?”

“What?” Safir asked reflexively, still taken aback by Alistair’s parting words.

“You have stood for several moments. Our task lies ahead, and you keep it waiting.”

“Oh, yeah, it’s nothing, Sten. Let’s go,” she answered, motioning for Sten to lead the way.

Grunting as though resentful of her command, he left her alone and stepped forward to follow Alistair down the hill. Safir began walking again, albeit slowly. Ahead of her, she spied Morrigan, who seemed to be lost in as much thought as she’d been herself. Concern played upon the witch’s face in the form of a bit lip and pensive eyes, though she wiped it clean the moment she noticed that Safir was watching.

Any other day, she would have been curious about what the expression meant, but in the wake of Alistair’s confusing admission there was little room in her head for that sort of thought. It was already buzzing loudly in an attempt to make sense of his words, and her own physical response to what he’d told her was worth as much attention, anyway.

A quick beating heart and a rush of nerves were tell-tale signs of a very foolish thing, but surely their meanings must be diverse. They had to be. The alternative was very foolish, indeed.


	3. Oh Maker, No

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We now venture briefly into Alistair's perspective as he tries to win our protagonist's fickle heart. She is less than receptive to his advances.

Alistair sat in front of the fire, watching its flames dance while chewing on a bit of roast rabbit. The firelight had always seemed so strange to him, unsteady but enduring all at once. Perhaps their quest could be compared to it? All around them were obstacles, and yet they endured all the same. Ostagar, Redcliffe… and now on the road to the Brecilian Forest they’d been attacked by wolves no less than three times. Yet, miraculously, here they all were, safe and sound. Sten. Leliana. Morrigan. Shale, albeit unsurprisingly.

But maybe he was just being silly. _You’re a templar, not a poet._

Still, he supposed, the metaphor made some amount of sense. Two Wardens versus a Blight? To say they walked a knife’s edge was an understatement. Knife edges… why did that make him think of—

“Hey,” Safir grunted, plopping herself down on the ground next to him without another word.

“Hello,” Alistair responded, elongating the syllables for comedic effect. Or so he hoped, anyway. He could never tell with her.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

Safir only hummed a short acknowledgment in response. She seemed tense, somehow.

“Something on your mind?” he asked.

“Wolves are annoying, aren’t they?”

“I suppose they can be. I was raised by them, remember?”

Safir offered no verbal response, but curled her lips into a smile at his joke. He loved seeing that smile.

“But really, though. Is there something you’d like to talk about?” he pressed.

“Not unless you know something I don’t.”

“Such as?”

“How should I know?” she quipped.

“Fair point,” he answered, laughing. “Well, I’m glad you’re here, anyhow.”

“What? Why?”

“Why shouldn’t I be?”

“I don’t know,” she said, her voice lowering into a beautiful, delicate rasp. “Most humans I know aren’t happy to have elves by their side. Unless they’re…”

“Unless they’re what? Unless they’re dancing the Remigold? Unless they’re giving out free food?”

“Oh, or how about if they’re incessantly making terrible jokes?” Safir suggested pointedly. It was a fair accusation, he had to admit. He willed his thoughts to turn a bit more serious.

“Or unless they’re fighting darkspawn together?”

Safir faced him for the first time since she’d started the conversation, eyes startled but severe. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Er… nothing? Just that I’m really glad that Duncan found you.”

“Stop that!” she yelled.

“Stop what?”

“That! I don’t know… stop being so…” she trailed off, vaguely waving her hand in the air.

This was interesting. He was just being nice, wasn’t he? Well, maybe not _just_ being nice, but certainly he wasn’t being impolite. “Safir, I don’t know how to tell you this, but you’re acting very strangely right now.”

“No, I’m not. You’re just being impossible,” she asserted. Impossible?

“Right, you’re gonna have to explain that one to me. How am I being impossible?” _Get her laughing again, you idiot._

“You’re just being so, I don’t know, nice?” she ventured, building her thoughts slowly as she spoke. “Why do you keep doing that? It makes it impossible to be around you.”

“Nice? I’m not being nice! I’m vicious, don’t you know?” he joked. “You should see me when you’re not around! You wouldn’t believe how many children I’ve brought to tears with my creative insults.”

“Vicious Alistair? Ha! That I’d like to see!”

“Well, I appreciate your interest, though I doubt you’ll ever see much of that.” _Keep it together… here it comes._

“Why not?”

“Because I’m not usually vicious around people I care about.” _Perfect. That’ll keep her thinking for a while._

“Ugh!” she scoffed, kicking up dirt as she angrily stormed off. Was it something he said?

Alistair fell onto his back and groaned. Maker, why was she so hard to understand? Maybe he just wasn’t cut out for this sort of thing. What was “courtship,” anyhow? What was “love?” Wait, what? Did he just use the L word? Maker, it couldn’t be that serious yet, could it? Oh, Maker. Oh, Maker, no. This was trouble. Dear Maker, but this was sure to be trouble…


	4. Boots Begone, Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Adaia's boots don't have very good stats, and I had to think of some reason for Safir to stop wearing them. It's taken us some time to get here, but at last, we have some real angst. Enjoy.

If there were any place in Thedas that was more of a maze than the Brecilian Forest, Safir wanted nothing more than to stay away from it. Nothing Zathrian or the other Dalish had said prepared her for navigating the winding, twisting, looping, and utterly confounding pathways of the wood. Each foot forward was less sure than the last, but still she continued, still she trudged, still she struggled against the moss-encrusted ground of this interminable forest.

“Have any of you seen a white wolf yet?” she asked, hoping her companion’s voices would distract from her anger at their aimless path.

“If I had, ‘tis not something I would have neglected to mention,” Morrigan answered, sounding as annoyed as ever.

“This is pointless. There are no darkspawn here. We should turn back.”

“You’re so helpful, Sten,” Alistair piped up. “Were you always so single-minded, or did you have to take lessons?”

“Parshaara. If my advice is not wanted I will not offer it.”

Safir returned her attention to the wood now that her companions had made clear their lack of progress in locating Witherfang. Alistair’s insistence upon annoying the enormous Qunari was ill-advised and more than a little annoying. She’d preferred the silence of the forest to Sten’s exasperation.

Her feet shuffled one after the other while she stared down at them, avoiding what obstacles were available to her limited vision but otherwise allowing the terrain to guide her path. Minutes passed before she realized she’d been wandering aimlessly. Oh, damn it. They were lost, weren’t they?

“Anyone else want to take point?” she suggested, though she continued forward. “I have no clue where I’m going.”

“I would gladly lead on, were this the Korcari Wilds,” Morrigan began, “but to these woods I am as much a stranger as you are.”

“Do you mean to waste our time by speaking without offering solutions, mage?”

“’Twas not I who led us here! Look to the Warden if you wish to complain at someone.”

“Any of us could have gotten lost here,” Alistair responded defensively.

“You most of all, I suspect,” added Morrigan.

“Will you all shut up?” Safir snapped. “I let my mind wander and lost track of where we’ve been. Were we going this way?” she asked, pointing to her left, where an enormous fallen tree formed the roof of a tunnel leading deeper into the woods.

“To be honest, I didn’t know we were even traveling in a set direction,” Alistair admitted.

“Did you not hear anything Sarel told us?”

“Sorry, which one was Sarel? Was he the smith?”

“Are all _bas_ this irresponsible?”

“You’re not helping, Sten,” Safir accused. “Sarel was the elder, or the equivalent of an elder. He said we’d find Witherfang if we followed the paths where the undergrowth was most dense. That looks pretty dense to me.”

“Indeed, ‘tis a solid objective.”

“Alright, then. Under the tree it is. Let’s hope we find Witherfang sooner rather than later.”

Safir led the party forward, under the tree tunnel and into a small, circular clearing lined all around with thick brambles and an impenetrable wall of trees. A dead end. Perfect. Just as she let her head hang in disappointment at having followed the wrong path, she heard Morrigan advise caution and alertness from somewhere behind her.

“Do you feel that?” the witch asked. “Something about this clearing is… restless.”

“I don’t feel anything,” Alistair said. “Should I feel something?”

“The mage is right. Look at the trees. They bear a strange demeanor.”

Safir did as instructed, and though she couldn’t quite put her finger on it, Sten was right. Something about these trees felt ill at ease. Stepping forward to investigate, she soon realized why.

“Oh shit.”

The tree closest to her turned to face her as she approached. It would not remain idle much longer.

“These are sylvans!” Morrigan shouted. “Far too many for us to take on alone! Run!”

Safir broke into a sprint behind her companions just as the ground behind her erupted into a mess of roots and branches seeking to ensnare any caught within. Not willing to risk a glance behind her to see whether the sylvans had given chase, she simply kept running forward, watching as more roots sprang up around the feet of her three companions. She was close to the fallen trunk now, almost clear of the roots, or so she’d hoped. Surely the sylvans’ reach was not infinite. If she could just make it out of the tunnel…

Safir fell forward with a worried yell and in an instant her face hit the ground. She clawed desperately at the dirt in front of her, screaming for help as the roots around her calves constricted and pulled her back. Alistair was the first to notice, and almost as quickly as she’d fallen, he made his way back to her to pull her to safety. His frantic movement was disorienting, but she was no longer moving backwards. Instead, she inched ever so slightly forward as Alistair’s strength slowly outmatched that of the sylvan.

Sten came next, adding his strength to Alistair’s to free her from the roots. Morrigan had also taken notice, if the sound of her spells flying overhead was anything to go by. The combined efforts of her companions turned the tide in her favor, pulling her forward quickly now as she slipped free of the sylvan’s grip. Only… it wasn’t just the sylvan that she was slipping from.

“No!” she screamed. “Stop! Stop pulling!”

Her boots were coming loose. Each of the men’s pulls risked tearing them off her feet, but still they pulled. They wouldn’t listen! Damn it, why wouldn’t they listen?!

“Stop! Please, stop pulling!” she cried out desperately, but it was too late. With a final yank, Alistair tore her away from the roots that had ensnared her. His arms began closing in around her, but the moment she had control of herself she spun to face the roots, which were now receding swiftly back into the clearing, her mother’s boots in tow. “No! No, no, no!”

Safir broke into a hopeless sprint back in the direction of the clearing, her running slow on bare feet. Before she could make it very far, she felt Alistair’s arm around her waist, tugging her back away from the tunnel and into the woods. He ignored her screaming.


	5. Boots Begone, Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In this conclusion to the last chapter's story, our hero is kind of a huge asshole. Thankfully, Alistair's love transcends even the mightiest of dick moves.

She sat quietly on the forest floor, staring in contempt at her exposed feet. The cuts had stopped bleeding now, but bruises were beginning to form where the sylvan’s grip was strongest. To her right, her companions were locked in debate.

“She cannot continue in that condition,” Sten advised. “We must go back and replace her boots.”

“The Dalish do not often possess footwear. If they can manage, I see no reason why Safir could not.”

“Her feet are cut to shreds and you want her to walk deeper into the forest?!” Alistair protested. “No, I’m with Sten. She can’t go on barefoot.”

Safir stared on, not even wiggling her toes.

“I don’t want new boots,” she said flatly.

“See? On we go, then,” Morrigan declared. Though she wasn’t looking at him, Safir could almost feel Alistair’s look of disappointment.

“I don’t think that’s what she meant, Morrigan,” he said. Then, in a hushed voice, he continued, though Safir could still hear his words. “She ran off after the boots when I pulled her free. They must have meant something to her.”

“What a fascinating theory!” she mocked, speaking slowly in false incredulity. “Shall we ask her ourselves what meaning is held by two pieces of misshapen leather? Hm? What say you, Safir?”

Though Morrigan’s words were cruel, the wind on her feet was crueler. Safir did not bother to answer.

“Okay, that’s it. We’re going back,” Alistair ordered, taking charge of the situation. Then he knelt by Safir’s side and offered her his hand. “Here. Sten and I can take it in turns to help you walk, if you like.”

Instead of responding, Safir shoved Alistair’s hand away from her and walked unaided to where Sten stood waiting in silence. The Qunari understood her intentions at once, guiding her arm onto his shoulders to help bear her weight as they made their way back to the camp. Alistair offered twice to take over before he realized that Safir was not planning to accept his help.

Once they’d made it back to the Dalish camp, which took two hours due to the forest’s labyrinthine pathways, the task of acquiring a new pair of boots was quickly underway. Finding pairs that fit her was simple enough, but Safir was still hesitant to keep them on for very long. Some were too stiff, she said. Others too pliant. Some were just ugly. Of course, none of those reasons were truly moving. No pair of boots could ever replace her mother’s.

“You will have to choose eventually,” Sten advised. “We keep our task waiting.”

“I know, Sten. Just let me find a pair that fits well enough, and we’ll go back to work.” Sten only grunted in response. She had three pairs to choose from now, each of them with their own unique failings. And each of them sharing one flaw in particular that made her reluctant even to try them on.

Ducking away from her companions, she took the three pairs with her to a log, set them on the ground, and then sat on the log, facing them. She stared for several moments without moving. The pair on the left sagged a bit at the ankles, meaning they’d already been well worn. Her familiarity with worn leather might provide some level of comfort, though how much, she could not guess. The middle pair looked newer, and by rights was the most durable. They pinched her toes a bit when she tried them, so stiff was the leather from which they were made. They were new, and they’d be sure to last. The pair on the right… well, she’d only taken that pair into consideration to stall for time.

Just as she resigned herself to taking the middle pair for her own, Safir’s thoughts were interrupted by Alistair’s sudden intrusion. _Alistair_. It was because of him that this situation, this loss was thrust upon her. Why hadn’t he just listened? Safir furrowed her brows and looked at the ground to her left, unwilling to make eye contact with him.

“I brought you another pair, just in case those aren’t good enough,” he said, dropping another set of boots to the ground. She didn’t look at them. “What? Are you just never going to speak to me again? Not even a ‘thank you’ for saving your life?”

Safir dug her nails into the log, still refusing to look his way.

“Maker, Safir, I really don’t understand you sometimes!”

“I wouldn’t expect you to,” she answered simply.

“What?!” he yelled, obviously in vehement disagreement with her. “Just what is that supposed to mean? Am I not also a Grey Warden? Have I not been by your side this entire time?”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“Well then what _did_ you mean, Safir? Because frankly, I’m having trouble figuring it out. I get it, you’ve probably had those boots a while, and I’ll admit they were rather tasteful, but running after them into a clearing full of angry sylvans?”

“I didn’t ask you to help me!” she bit back, attempting to change the subject.

“You didn’t need to! You had me so terrified, Safir. So worried that I wouldn’t be fast enough, or strong enough.” Those words finally pulled at her enough that she couldn’t help but look into his eyes. There was anger in them, but also worry. A very confusing and unwelcome combination. “And then, just when I’d got you free, you ran back in! Why? I was so afraid that I’d lose you, don’t you see that?”

“Why?! Why do you care?!” she begged. “Why do you _fucking_ care so much, _human_?”

Alistair’s stunned silence and hurt expression were almost an answer all on their own. Her own regret at what she said, what she’d dared to say, dug deeply into her nerves. There they both paused, at a loss for words, until finally Alistair broke the fragile silence with fragile voice.

“Because I… nothing. Never mind. Forget I said anything,” he sighed, waving off the question and turning around. He stood silently with his back to her and his hands on his head.

Safir looked away again, this time out of shame rather than anger. How could she have called him human? After so much time on the road, after so much time spent… spent in anxious thought… No. She had to fix this.

“They were my mother’s.”

“What?” asked Alistair, turning around.

“My boots. They were all I had left of my mother.”

“Oh, Maker, I… I’m so sorry, Safir,” he said, lowering and shaking his head. “I had no idea.”

There was still concern in his eyes, though now his anger was gone. That was even more confusing. What could possibly motivate that kind of concern? She looked down at her bare feet, studying the fresh bruises and remembering old ones.

“My mother was killed by a human when I was a girl. A human killed her, a human dumped her body in the street, and other humans spat on it. Humans made it impossible to hold a proper funeral for her. Humans kept us from seeking justice. They never cared about us.”

Safir looked up and into Alistair’s eyes. They were… sad. For her.

“Why do _you_ care?” she asked him softly.

Alistair hesitated a few moments, his eyes flitting back and forth. He seemed to move between sympathy and indecision with every glance.

“Safir,” he finally spoke, taking a step towards her, “I care about you because I… because you’re my friend. I hope you know that, and I hope you don’t see me as just some human.”

“I don’t,” she sighed. His lip curled up at the corner as she said it. “I shouldn’t have said that.”

Alistair looked at her thoughtfully for a moment before speaking up again. “When… when you join the Wardens, your old life doesn’t matter anymore. It only matters that you’re here, in the present, doing your duty. When I look at you, _you_ are all that I see. And _you_ are amazing, Safir.”


	6. Fucking Stupid Rose

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our reluctant hero's romantic defenses have worn thin as a result of Alistair's persistence and charm. His latest stunt, giving her a rose and calling both it and her beautiful, has reduced her to writhing in the death throes of her own prejudice.
> 
> Independently published under a different name, this chapter is the subject of a work concisely titled, "That Rash, Irresponsible Moment in Every Movie Where the Protagonist Takes Things into Their Own Hands, Usually with Disastrous Results, but Luckily not this Time (Until the Archdemon, Anyway)."

_Okay, so he’s human._

_Big deal. He’s got round ears, a big, clumsy, stupidly attractive muscular body, and dumb blonde hair._

_Big deal, right?_

Safir’s thoughts were little comfort. Ever since that day in the forest, after trudging through the dungeons, after losing her boots, even after she’d dared to call him human in place of his name. He still cared. He still wanted her enough to give her that stupid rose.

What difference did it make? So what if he gave her the withered remains of a flower he’d picked weeks before he gave it to her? It was useless, a simple thing, a stupid thing.

_Then why is it still twirling about my fingers?_

True enough, she hadn’t let go of the damn thing since she’d crawled into her tent for the night. 

Not to sleep, of course not to sleep. But to stay up, and to think. To talk circles around herself trying to figure out what the hell had changed to make her care this much about a fucking rose.

It was delicate, a dried out twig of a thing, but still Alistair had called it beautiful, had called her beautiful. He was so damn sure of himself, too. The complete fool.

It was just a flower.

Just a rose.

But Maker, did it work.

 _He’s a human. A human who_ likes _me. A human I’ve tried so hard to hate, but for what? It’s gotten harder by the day, and it’s gotten me nowhere. Nowhere but here, sitting alone in a tent and… cursing myself for wanting him with me._

Did she just… admit it? To herself?

There was no escaping it. There was no lie, no self-delusion, no way to cover it up this time. She hadn’t said the words out loud, but she’d thought them. She’d thought of him. Here, with her.

“Fuck,” she cursed, falling backwards onto her bedroll. “Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, _fuck._ ”

“Safir? Is that you? Is everything alright?”

Shit. That was Alistair’s voice. How close had he been? Surely he wasn’t trying to… enter the tent? No. No, he was far too nervous a man for that. More likely she’d just been loud and careless. But she had to say something, anything to get him away from her, just this once, just one last time before she was ready.

“What? I’m fine. How do I know _you’re_ alright, hmm?” _Maker, I’m an idiot._

“Er... you don’t? I am, if you’re curious, though. I’m fine. Glad to know you’re fine. Everything’s fine here,” he stammered, then cleared his throat in an attempt to recollect himself. “I’m just going to go now, if that’s alright with you, my… er… Safir.”

Well, at least he didn’t ask any more questions.

Safir turned over and looked through her pack. Ruffling through all of the actual, important crap she’d stuffed into it, she finally found what she was actually looking for. The locket, cracks and all, glued back together by Eamon, or someone else. She’d taken it weeks before, at Redcliffe, but never bothered to give it to Alistair.

_Never bothered, or never worked up the nerve?_

There was no point in belaboring it now. The locket sat in her palm, staring back up at her and making weeks of stress and anxiety turn into a flush of clarity. She hadn’t given it to him all that time because giving it to him would have been an admission of guilt. Of feelings she didn’t want to have.

But now, she had them. Oh Maker, did she have them.

Her heart beat faster, a rushing pulse in her chest that annoyed and stimulated her in equal parts. But it was there, it couldn’t be denied, and it was hungry.

_Tomorrow. I’ll give it to him tomorrow._

Pushing out what euphemistic thoughts she could after thinking that, she closed her palm over the locket and held it to her chest, feeling the mismatched pace of her lungs and heart as they struggled to keep up with the rush in her head.

Alistair had already taken the hardest step for her. All that remained now was for her to follow his lead.

_But I’m not romantic. How the hell am I supposed to… just admit things… to people? To people I… care about?_

But wasn’t it obvious? There was no point in denying it to herself, so surely there must be no point in denying it to Alistair, right? And if there was no point in denying it to Alistair, there was no point in dancing around it, either. Which could only mean that the best, most logical way to go about all this flustered nonsense was to run at it head on, stab it in the gut, and celebrate the victory later. Obviously.

 _Fuck tomorrow_ , she thought, pushing aside the flaps of her tent and stepping out into the chill night.


	7. It Was a Nobleman's Dildo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In this last bit of happiness for our hero, we briefly glance at her ill-fated romantic entanglement in a fun, dialogue only format. Remember this moment, for its kind have no place in the stories to come.
> 
> This chapter was originally a response to a writing prompt on /r/DragonAge.

"Wait, are you telling me you _didn't_ do that on purpose?"

"What? Of course not! Why would I?"

"What the hell is wrong with you?!"

"Wrong with me? Who is it that stole it in the first place?"

"That's beside the point."

"How?"

"I stole it to piss them off, and because they deserved it! Doesn't mean I wanted to actually keep the damn thing!"

"Safir, darling, if you don't want something you should get rid of it yourself."

"Maybe I'll get rid of you, then, since apparently you're trying to get us both put in prison."

"Hey, that isn't fair! You stuffed it into my rucksack! How was I supposed to know you wanted me to get rid of it?"

"It was stolen contraband, Alistair. That's not the sort of thing people like to have with them at all times."

"I didn't know that!"

"Okay, that's not the sort of thing _smart_ people like to have with them at all times."

"Now you're sounding like Morrigan..."

"I'm starting to understand her perspective more, too!"

"You're being mean. You're not pretty when you're mean."

"Oh, shit. You're not actually upset are you?"

"Upset that the love of my life is calling me stupid? No, of course not. Why would I be?"

"Alistair, I... I'm sorry. I was only teasing."

"Promise?"

"Promise."

"It was an honest mistake."

"I know, I know. I'm not really mad at you. It was actually pretty funny."

"You really mean that?"

"It's rare that I think you're actually funny, but yes, I do."

"That's good. That makes me feel better."

"I'm glad... no boyfriend of mine is going to be a crybaby."

" _Crybaby?!_ What?! I wasn't crying!"

"You were about to! I could tell."

"I was not!"

"Were, too!"

"I wasn't crying, _you_ were crying!"


	8. Hubris, Thy Name is Safir

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the penultimate chapter of the first volume, we solemnly join Safir as she makes the decision that will haunt her for the rest of her days.

“Do not be alarmed. It is only I,” Morrigan reassured upon hearing Safir enter the room. Firelight embraced her figure with a restless glow as she turned to face her.

“Morrigan? Is everything alright?” Safir asked, stepping forward to stand with her by the fire.

“I am well,” she answered. “Tis you who are in danger. I have a plan, you see. A way out. The loop in your hole. I know what happens when the archdemon dies. I know a Grey Warden must be sacrificed, and that sacrifice could be you. But this does not need to be.”

Morrigan’s cautious greeting was beginning to make sense.

“You knew about this all along? And you didn’t think to tell me?”

“Twas necessary that I wait and be sure. Now I am. Now we speak in private where no others can hear. I offer a way out. A way out for all the Wardens, that there need be no sacrifice. A ritual, performed on the eve of battle, in the dark of night.”

“Nothing comes without a price, Morrigan,” Safir challenged. Secrecy like this shouldn’t have been so surprising, all things considered.

“Perhaps, but that price need not be so unbearable, especially if there is much to be gained. All I ask is that you listen to what I have to offer, nothing more.”

“Alright, I’m listening. What is it?”

“What I propose is this: convince Alistair to lay with me, here, tonight,” Morrigan answered, sidling casually towards the bed, indifferent to the shock of her request.

“Excuse me? Did I hear that right?” 

“Yes,” Morrigan sighed, “you did. Please, just listen. Alistair lays with me, and from this ritual a child shall be conceived within me. The child will bear the taint, and when the archdemon is slain, its essence will seek the child like a beacon. At this early stage, it can absorb that essence and not perish. The archdemon is still destroyed, with no Grey Warden dying in the process.”

The witch’s eyes sparked hungrily as she explained her plan, but to what end, Safir was clueless. Too focused was the insult of asking for Alistair to be delivered to her as a borrowed toy.

“Why come to me, then?” Safir asked, her face flush with rising anger. “Why not ask him yourself?” 

“Alistair despises me! You know this. He rarely listens to reason, but he would listen to you. You of all people could influence him.”

“ _Influence_ him? Listen to yourself, Morrigan!” she begged, not noticing the curling of her fingers into clenched fists. “Don’t do this. Don’t put me in that position.”

Morrigan let out a somber sigh in response. Enough to show her regret, what little of it there was, but not enough to slow her down.

“Safir, just think about what I offer you: you will live, as will Alistair. You could slay the archdemon and live as a hero, something no Grey Warden has ever done. Is one night with him so unthinkable that you would throw all that away?”

“It’s not just that, Morrigan, it’s… that’s too selfless, coming from you. What do you get out of this?”

“So suspicious, are we?” Morrigan asked, the fire that danced in her eyes reflecting her failed attempt at humor. “Very well. You guess rightly, as you so often do. All I ask in return is a child, one who will be born with the soul of an Old God.”

“Oh, is that all? Just a child with a god’s soul?” she chided. As if giving up Alistair was not enough, now she was expected to sanction the birth of whatever that _thing_ would be? 

“Yes, that is all, and you would do well to realize it!” the witch snapped. “One night, one child, and after this is done, you allow me to walk away. And you do not follow. Ever. The child will be mine to raise as I wish.”

And now she added exile! What next, a tithe? She couldn’t be allowed to take such advantage so easily.

“That is too much, Morrigan. You... ask too much.”

“Is this really because of Alistair?” she asked, putting on an air of thin incredulity. “Believe you me, I would not lay with him if another option were available. But even if I thought Riordan could be convinced, he is unsuitable. I need someone who has not been tainted for long. It must be him, and it must be tonight.”

“And you actually believe Alistair will agree to this?”

“If you care for him as you seem to, you will convince him to. Think of what the alternative might be. If Riordan fails, do you think Alistair will hesitate? He will die the Hero of Ferelden, Maric’s son, and you will be forgotten.”

“I don’t care who takes the credit! I didn’t become a Warden to bask in the glory of it!”

“No, indeed. But as I recall, you did not choose to become a Warden at all, did you? Just as you did not choose to have this sacrifice thrust upon you. I think you have many good reasons to tell him to save his own life. I think you should consider them carefully.”

If Morrigan planned to counter lack of choice in the past with lack of choice now, Safir was not the one who needed to think more carefully. Riordan had experience, didn’t he? Surely he was a safer bet than giving Alistair over to this experiment.

“You don’t even know that it’ll work! You can’t know.”

“Can I not? This is what my mother intended when she sent me with you. She was the one who first gave me this ritual and told me of what I was meant to do,” Morrigan explained.

“Are you serious?” Safir gasped. “The same woman you asked me to kill? Now you’re doing her bidding?”

“This does not surprise you, does it? Did you not wonder why Flemeth saved your life? Why she aided you? _This_ is why. What is important is that I am offering this to you now. It will work, and it will save your life.”

Safir could not settle upon what was worse between the indignity and the dishonesty, so scattered were her thoughts. Was there anything at all genuine about Morrigan? Or was the bitch just pretending so she could later claim her prize?

After everything they’d been through, after everything Safir _thought_ they’d been through… now she offered only betrayal. Ignoring the hurt in favor of whitening her knuckles, her decision was made.

“No. I won’t agree to this.”

“Do not let your foolish pride condemn you!” pleaded Morrigan, but the concern in her voice could no longer be trusted. “No Grey Warden asked for the sacrifice that is now demanded of them, and I offer all of you a way out! Will you not reconsider?”

“The answer is _no_ , Morrigan.”

The air around them turned stale as silence took hold of the room. Safir locked eyes with the witch, angry and expectant. For a moment nothing was said and she looked somewhat indignant, her lips parted below raised brows. But soon, the illusion of defeat was dispelled as her eyes sharpened and she rose from the bed.

“Then you are a fool! I will not stand by and watch you waste this opportunity! Die, if you think it is worthwhile. Or be overshadowed, I care not.”

“So that’s it?” Safir asked, her voice beginning to falter between hurt and anxious breaths. “I say no and you leave, just like that? So much for being _sisters_! What happened to ‘all I ask is that you listen to my offer’?”

“I do not have the freedom to waste my life as you do,” the witch bit back. “If you will not accept my offer, there is nothing left for us to discuss.” 

The words stung, but Safir held back from showing it. She considered the reality of what was about to happen and cursed herself for lacking the courage to prevent it.

“Go then, if that’s what you want.”

Morrigan’s expression softened a touch as though she was hurt and she paused a short while, still unwilling to give up the act. Then, apparently accepting the rejection at last, she turned away and headed for the still open door. Safir turned as well, but in the opposite direction, hiding her own expressions and crossing her arms in the glow of fire.

“Fare you well, my friend,” Morrigan called from behind her. “I do what I must now, and so shall you.”

Safir’s tense fingers dug into the crooks of her arms. Her chest beat in unsteady concert with the crackling of the flames as her quivering lip grew into a grimace.

“Morrigan, wait…” she called, turning around to find that she’d addressed only the stillness in the air. Her friend had gone, and by now was likely irretrievable.

Safir’s next thoughts were unpleasant company. What would she do now? What could she do? The night was no longer young, and the preparations for the coming march had all been made. All that was left was to wait. 

And what of Alistair? What would she tell him? He would no doubt appreciate being spared the discomfort of laying with Morrigan, and that Safir denied her the opportunity to ask it of him. But that in doing so, she consented to death? How would he react to that?

Maybe it would be better not to tell him anything. To let him remain in the dark about Morrigan’s offer. Or was that just more weakness on her part?

Safir made for the door, half expecting to see the witch standing just outside it, but had no such luck. She walked down the short hall and into Alistair’s bedroom, where he stood with his back to her.

“Oh, there you are,” he said, having heard her enter. “Did you go for a walk? Have a talk with some of the others? I don’t mean to be a bother, but I hope you didn’t tell them what Riordan told us. It’s just, we’re Wardens, too. It’s our responsibility to keep things like that secret.”

“Alistair…” she interrupted quietly.

“Safir?” he asked. “Is something wrong? You look worried.”

“Morrigan’s gone.”

“She’s gone? Gone where? To the loo?”

“No, I mean she’s gone. Really gone,” she answered. There was so much she wanted to say, so much she knew she _should_ say, but the words escaped her.

“What do you mean? Did you have an argument?”

Safir hesitated, watching the faint glimmer of concern that played across Alistair’s eyes in the low light. She imagined what they would look like with anger in them instead. Or worse yet, disappointment. Sadness. She couldn’t bear to see her thoughts realized by telling him the truth.

“I don’t know, Alistair. I couldn’t find her. I just hope she’s okay, wherever she is.”

“I’m sure she will be,” Alistair assured, wrapping her in his arms. “She’s resourceful.”

“Yes,” Safir agreed, returning the hug. For all its warmth, she felt only a desolate cold. “She’ll be alright.”

No, losing one person tonight was enough. She wouldn’t lose a second. The truth could wait until after Riordan fulfilled his promise. And should he fail…

Better that she pay the price instead.


	9. The Blight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And now, the grim results of our hero's pride. 
> 
> This chapter was independently published under the title, "The End of Doctor Strange but Safir is Dormammu and Alistair is Doctor Strange."

There was no sound.

No smell. 

Nothing but the flashing of steel against a red sky. A rapidly shrinking shape setting off into the distance, dimming with each plant of a bloodstained boot. 

Seconds earlier the world was ablaze with sight and sound. A blast of purple here, a blur of daggers there, an apocalypse of smoke and fire raining down atop what was left of Fort Drakon, the rhythm of battle focusing her eyes, steadying her hands. _Just like the dragon at the temple_ , she thought. _Just like Flemeth_. The Archdemon had set fire to Denerim, laid waste to its buildings, slaughtered its people. But in the end, it was just another dragon. And it fell like just another dragon. Finally, a rest. The stench of fresh death erupted in her nostrils. Darkspawn littered the field. Smoke filled the air. Burning flesh seared in its plate armor. The corrupted god lay before them, spent.

It was on the verge of death then, its head lolling weakly back and forth, begging for one final stroke of steel. Safir took a step forward. Then another. But the third never came. Alistair grabbed her arm, told her to stop, told her he would go. Her protests went unheeded, brushed off by the assurance that the choice wasn't hers to make. Not this time. She begged him to let her go, to let her strike the final blow, but by then he had left her side and sentenced himself to death, leaving her broken, on her knees, still pleading for another chance at changing his mind. His rapidly shrinking shape had set off into the distance, dimmed by each plant of his bloodstained boots. 

No sound. No smell. A quick flash of steel against a red sky. An explosion of light. And then, as quickly as it came, it was gone. The blinding light replaced by a blinding dark as Safir recovered from the blast.

Sten struggled to lift his exhausted body from the floor. Wynne made no attempt to move, complaining of pain. But Safir didn't care. The ringing in her ear, the dryness of her mouth, the burned images staining her eyes, they all compelled her forward, forward to the smaller of the two corpses strewn in front of her. Alistair. His gauntlet shattered, revealing the charred flesh of his hand. His chest plate dented, no doubt the cause of the pooling blood that enveloped his torso. His face cut and burned on the left side, highlighting the still open eyes. The same eyes that shone brightly with every joke. The same eyes that roared with fire when they met Loghain's. The same eyes that held such loving light when they beheld a rose, now so empty. 

There was no sound. No smell. No light. As Alistair's body was a dead husk, so was Safir a living one. She closed her eyes, drawing her fingers over his, and stood. She felt nothing as she stepped through the wreckage and made her way to the fort's ground floor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thus concludes Volume 1 of the Safir Sadness Marathon.
> 
> Volume 3 Coming whenever Volume 2 is finished. Most of it is done already.


End file.
